Thursday, January 21, 2016

The former Texas Express Company rail hub was a hub of a different kind -- animal narcotics. (PHOTO COURTESY OF DCSO)

Originally baffled, officials said they now believe several tons of meth were being shipped out daily to farms, zoos and wildlife sanctuaries in Texas, Colorado, Florida and South Carolina.

Martin Sasquall, wildlife caretaker at the Dallas Zoo, said it has become apparent that the meth lab was using mules to cart the dangerous drugs from the Dallas hub to caves and fields thoughout the distribution area.

"We wondered why there were so many mules wandering into and out of Forth Worth," said Denton County Sheriff Chester McRedhaw. "We just thought there were on vacation or something."

Eventually, one of Denton County's finest followed one of the mules to the meth lab, the former Texas Express Company rail hub. Once inside, Deputy James Cavanaugh noticed that several mules were huddled in the corner, "huffing," -- or breathing in the fumes -- of the dangerous chemical soup.

Also found in the abandoned rail building were several gangs of armadillos, monkeys, and kangaroos -- most of whom appeared to be under the influence of the drug.

No arrests were made due to the fact that the assailants were literally animals. However, they were shipped to zoos throughout the southwest in hopes of breaking up the animal drug cartel.

The actual impact of the animal meth trade is not yet known. Officials expect further announcements in the coming weeks and months.

Saturday, February 8, 2014

The governor-elect stood at the podium ready to address
his supporters. It was a hard-fought election, but Stan knew that he would win.
Actually, he had no doubt in his mind that he would win. He had it on good
authority that he was a shoe-in to become the next governor of California.

Now, instead of just Stan Goodwin the Lafayette High
School head custodian, he was Governor Stan Goodwin of California. He still
found it hard to believe that it was only a year ago that he was pushing a
broom while those snotty little bastards made his life miserable.

He wanted to use his new-found power to exact revenge on
a lot of different people, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to do that. He
raised his hands to ask for quiet and then leaned forward to address the huge
crowd that had gathered.

“I just want to thank Senator Constantine for a great
campaign and wish him the best of luck! But as for me, g I’m going to
Sacramento!”

The crowd went crazy as they started to kick around the
balloons that had fallen from the ceiling only an hour earlier when Senator
Franklin Constantine had conceded the race for governor of California. In his
address to the media, Senator Constantine said he was “mystified by the choice
of the people,” but he admitted that he had to do what the people of California
wanted.

Governor-elect Goodwin waited for the crowd to quiet down
again, and then he finished his acceptance speech to his supporters.

“I want to thank my family, especially my wife, for their
love and support. I want to thank my staff and everyone who made this possible.
Now it is on to Sacramento to make the changes that you asked me to make!”

More confetti fell from the ceiling as “We Are The
Champions” blared over the sound system. Stan wondered if anyone asked Queen if
his campaign could use that song, but then he realized that it really didn’t
matter.

The first person to meet Stan as he got off the stage was
his campaign manager Albert Young. Albert was an ambitious guy, but he wasn’t
Stan’s choice for the campaign. Everything to do with Stan’s campaign was
hand-picked by Mr. Ankou. Albert approached Stan and handed him a towel. Then
Albert leaned in to tell Stan that Mr. Ankou was waiting for Stan in the back
office.

Stan’s demeanor suddenly got very solemn. Now it was
starting to sink in that it was time to pay the piper. It was time for Stan to
keep all of the promises he made to Mr. Ankou in exchange for becoming the most
powerful man in California. Mr. Ankou promised Stan that the Presidency of the
United States was next, but that would have to wait a couple of years.

As Stan opened the door to the back office, Mr. Ankou was
sitting behind the desk with his hands folded in front of him. Stan slowly
walked into the office and closed the door behind him.

“Stanley. Please, sit down.”

Stan sat and then started to sweat a little bit. He
wasn’t really sure what Mr. Ankou was going to do next. Stan stammered out the
question that had been burning into his mind for weeks.

“Okay, so, now what?”

“So articulate Stanley! That is why I chose you! Now you
just need to keep doing what I tell you and I will deliver you to the White
House.”

“When we first met, you talked about bringing your people
back. What does that mean?”

“Stanley, the less you know right now, the better off you
will be.”

“Are you really over 1,000 years old?”

“Yes, Stanley! I am. Well over. And now that I have you
in a position of power, I am going to show you exactly how I managed to stay
looking so young all of these years.”

"I don't suppose that it has anything to do with
banging twenty-year old, college co-eds?" Stanley muttered.

"Please, Stanley, some decorum. You're a
professional. Of course no co-eds, despite your best attempts to prove
otherwise. You're lucky you haven't been caught. Or maybe you have and the
right people have been paid off. At any rate, Stanley, it's time to learn my
secrets."

"I'm not sure I'm ready for this," Stanley
replied. Mr. Ankou poured a glass of cognac for himself and another for
Stanley. He handed it to Stanley and then sat down on a couch in the center of
the room. He motioned for the governor-elect to sit at the matching couch
across from him.

"Please, Stanley. Don't flatter yourself. It's just
all part of the process." Ankou watched as unease filled the face of the
new California governor. Stanley slowly set down his glass on the table between
the couches and loosened his tie.

"I'm not sure…"

"Of course not. Please. Remain dressed. I was merely
demonstrating the power I have over you."

"Who are you?"

"As an educated man, I'm sure you realize that
'Ankou' is Gaelic for 'Death.' Well. that's who I am. Death. I have many names
in many tongues, but I am best known simply as Death."

"Am I going to die?" Stanley stammered. He
reached for his glass and finished off the rest of the glass. Ankou smirked
from behind his own glass.

"Yes. We all are. Even me. Which is why we're here
right now."

"I mean, am I dying right now?"

"Let's not to get too far ahead of ourselves,
Stanley. My body is starting to wear out. I am immortal…"

"You're the devil?" Stanley asked sheepishly.
All the bravado of the man who had just clinched the election for governor of
the state of California was gone and replaced with the uncertainty of an
adolescent boy on his first date.

"No. I said my name meant 'Death,' not 'Fiendishly
Handsome Harvester of Lost Souls.' Just listen to what I'm telling you."
Ankou said with a bit of impatience.

"Sorry."

"As I was saying, my body is starting to wear out.
I'm looking for a new body to take over to continue my duties as Death. I've
chosen you as my next incarnation," Ankou continued.

"But…"

"Stanley, Stanley, Stanley. There's nothing you can
do about this. You are going to die. In three years, at your next physical, the
doctor will find a tumor in your brain. You will die in office. And then I will
take over your body and continue with my existence. You see, these bodies only
last about 1200 years. After that time, the body rapidly begins to disintegrate
and die."

"You can see the future? I'm sorry for all the
questions. I'm having a hard time with this."

"I cannotseeinto the future. I am immortal, even if my
body is not. As an immortal, time is eternal. I can pop in and out of various
epochs in your past, present and future. Every once in a while my other
incarnations meet up at the same event in history. Which, of course, is how we
got the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. It was the one time that four of us
showed up at the same place. It's the end of the world, for God's sake! Who
wouldn’t want to see that? Especially Death? In those days I still rode horses.
And the poor writer of ‘Revelations’ who had the vision mistakenly called us by
these other names, which has stuck. I lose all the credit."

"You rode horses? What do you ride now?"

"Yes. I used to ride a flaming steed. It used to
burn my ass. With new human technology, I have upgraded my horses to a Fat Boy
Harley."

"With flames on the tank?" Stanley asked. He
walked across the room to refill his glass with cognac. He took a pull from the
glass and topped it off again.

"Yes, with flames on the tank. And let me tell you,
when I show up to take the dead away, chicks really dig those flames. Hey,
would you fill me up?" Ankou held his glass out to Stanley. The
governor-elect served his benefactor a second drink and headed back to the
couch.

"It's a beautiful machine," Stanley commented.

"It is. And now we must get back to the matter at
hand. You are going to die in three years. I will make you the most powerful
governor in California history in the time we have left. Well, maybe second
most powerful, but you'll do it without steroids. I will even pave your way to
the White House, just as I promised."

"What is going to happen to me?"

"Well, that's a very interesting story," Ankou
answered.

“As
I told you,” Ankou continued, “on the occasion of your next physical, just
before you take office, your doctor will find a tumor in your brain. You’ll be
given just weeks to live but I’m going to hold off from reaping you for another
two years and 10 months after that.”

“What? Why?”

“Stanley. Would you kindly shut the fuck up and listen for a change?”

“Yeah. Sorry, I …”

“Really. Just shut up.”

Stanley
and Ankou both took a sip of their cognac and stared intently at one another
for 30 seconds. Stanley wanted to talk and Ankou wanted to exert his influence
of the humble-janitor-turned-governor-elect.

“Thank you,” Ankou continued. “You see, I am immortal. But I am not omnipotent.
I have only one real gift. I can choose how and when people will die. Or how
long they will live. I have some other minor abilities, mind you, like
convincing people to do my bidding in exchange for certain favors. It is how
you have ascended to the role you have now.”

“Okay …”

Ankou stared intently at Stan, silently reminding him to keep quiet.

“I have made you the poster boy for hope in the world. If a lowly janitor can
become governor of California then anyone can do anything. You may think this a
good thing for humanity, but truly there is no greater evil than hope. People
will attempt all sorts of irrational and stupid things. Just tonight, for
example, with the knowledge that you have pulled off the impossible, hundreds
of men across the country will take it as a sign to ‘go for it,’ and finally
ask the girls of their dreams to dinner or drinks or whatever. They’ll all be
shot down. Every one of them. For hope is a fool’s game. It convinces people to
believe in the impossible.”

Ankou sat back in his leather chair and swirled his cognac in his glass. Taking
a sip, he unleashed a smirk the size of San Andreas Fault.

“People will run red lights, play chicken, try to jump over cliffs on bicycles.
Your winning tonight will bring about more deaths in the next three years than
the Third Reich. Your ‘hope’ will actually bring chaos unseen in centuries.”

“But I …” Stanley attempted to interject.

Shooting up from his chair, Ankou shouted, “Shut. The. Fuck. Up. This isn’t
about you. It was never about you. And you should consider yourself lucky that
I’m not only allowing you to keep your meager existence but promoting you to
something so much greater than you could ever wish to be. If you open your
mouth one more fucking time before I am done, I will strike you down right here
and now. No governor. No wife. No kids. No fucking co-eds. Just me. Death. Now.
Do you under-fucking-stand?”

Stan’s eyes stood as wide as saucers, but he dared not speak.

“Your election tonight brought hope. The announcement of your brain tumor will
be seen as a setback at first but my allowing you to live for years past the
doctors’ diagnosis will actually make you a heroic character, able to fight
through all odds. Your legacy will near that of George Washington, Abraham
Lincoln, and many other people whose lives I’ve ended only when I felt it appropriate.”

“After your brain cancer diagnosis, you will take time to ‘consider your
future,’ after which you will announce that you will press on. In a year,
you’ll announce that you’re running for president. You’ll win. You’ll die in
office and when you’re buried, I’ll take over your physical form. With some
alterations, mind you, so I’m not mistaken for you. I’ll get a ‘new lease on
life,’ if you will, and you’ll have the legacy your parents always wanted you
to have.”

“Now. Do you have any questions?”

Stanley was a little hesitant, but when Ankou shot
Stanley a slight smile with an inviting nod, Stanley knew that he could speak.

“Ok, yeah. I have a question. Why don’t you just take
over my body instead of all of this commotion? I mean, why did you make me
governor just to eventually kill me?”

“That, my dear boy, is a very good question. I like
games. Do you like games, Stanley?”

Stanley looked blankly at Ankou and then just nodded.

“Of course you do. Hope is a game to me Stanley. I give
the human race hope, then I take it away. It is what I do. Your ability to live
on past your diagnosis will give people hope. Then I will take that hope away.
It helps me to create the sense of disparity that I need in order to feel
comfortable on this loathsome planet. I create hope by using a figure that
beats the odds, then I take that hope away. It is what I do. Abraham Lincoln
was one of my greatest achievements. The world really thought he was going to
change things, and then I took him away.”

Stanley looked solemn for a while and then slowly stood
up.

“Look, Mr. Ankou. Is it okay if I just . . . go for
a walk?”

“Of course, Stanley. Just be back in one hour. We have
appointments to keep. Oh, and Stanley. Don’t try to run. I may not be
omnipotent, but I do own your soul. If you run, I will find you. And when I
find you, the deal is off and you are dead.”

Stanley slowly wandered out the back exit of the hotel
where his victory rally was being held and started walking down the street.
Some people recognized him and wanted to have pictures taken with him. But no
one really bothered him. He always thought that being a celebrity would be
different.

He wasn’t really paying attention, but he suddenly found
himself standing at the archway entrance to a park.

This park looks familiar. Stanley has seen this park on
television before. Isn’t this the park where Santa Claus was killed? Or
something twisted like that? Some little girl was killed here too. He
remembered that story from a year or two ago.

It was a pleasant enough evening and there were people
walking through the park just minding their own business. Stanley walked
towards the fountain where some street vendors were packing up after an evening
of selling their wares.

Stanley just watched them pack up their tables. He
started to wonder what life would be like with a brain tumor. Then he wondered
if his wife really loved him, or if Ankou has her under some kind of spell.
Stanley was contemplating the foundation of his marriage when he heard a female
voice answer his unasked question.

“She loves you, baby. You just have to be patient, that’s
all. Come talk to mama, I know what’s on your mind.”

Stanley turned around and saw what looked like a homeless
woman sitting on one of the park benches next to a shopping cart that had an
array of goodies in it. She was older looking and, much to his surprise, she
actually looked rather pleasant.

“How…how did you know what I was thinking?” Stanley
asked.

“Baby, you don’t have to do what that man says. He is
lying to you. He is not who he say he is.”

“What? What man? How do you . . .”

“Look, mama knows everything. That man is a deity, but he
is not no god of death. Think about it baby: Wouldn’t the god of death be all-knowing?
Of course he would. That man ain’t all-knowing. He isn’t who he say he is.”

“Well, who is he then?”

“He’s Loki, baby. And you need to stop him before he uses
you to kill millions of people.”

“Millions of people?”

“He’s not going to wait until you are dead to try and
possess your body, baby. He is going to wait until you are inaugurated as
governor. Then all hell’s gonna break loose.”

“What do I do?”

“You need to find my boy. He wanders this park and he is
the only one who can defeat Loki in a fair fight.”

“Your boy?”

“Oh yeah, baby. I gots me one helluva boy!”

Stanley
awoke with a start and sat up in bed. Next to him, his wife's sleeping form
never stirred. Maybe it was all a dream and I'm still just a janitor and a
crappy city school rather than the governor-elect. Maybe it would be just as
easy if it all was just a dream.

"Sorry
Stan, but it's not a dream," a voice called out of the darkness. A match
flickered and burst into flame before being put to cigar. It was Ankou sitting
in the chair in the corner. Stanley leaned back into the pillow that was
propped against the headboard. He glanced over to his wife a second time.

"Don’t
worry about her. She won't wake up for this. I guarantee it. Though I do have
to admit, the victory sex was definitely something to see. I didn't know you
could still do things at your age."

"Y-y-you
were watching?" Stanley stammered.

"Stanley,
please. It's hard to get dates when you only show up when they're dead to take
their hearts to be weighed. You disappoint me, Stanley. Talking to strange,
homeless women in the park? That boy of hers wouldn't think twice about ripping
your arms right off from your torso if the mood hit. And really, a crazy
homeless person? They can't be the best character witnesses."

"She
said you were no God. She said you were Loki."

"Again,
Stanley, are you going to listen to that old woman or to the one who brought
you to the position you now hold? You must remember, Loki often appears
as an old woman to the people he torments. And I must apologize for my outburst
earlier. I generally am a much nicer guy. Sometimes, it does get frustrating to
deal with only dead or dying people, though. Sometimes I just want to be the
free-loving, all-around good guy that deep down, I really am. And I'd like to
get laid," Ankou waved his cigar nonchalantly as he spoke.

Stanley
glanced out the window. Rain ran in rivulets down the hotel window. Occasional
flashes of lightning streaked across the darkened sky. Ankou remained in the
chair, blithely blowing smoke towards Stanley.

"Let
me set your mind at ease, my friend. Of course I'm not omnipotent. There's only
one cat daddy who holds those cards. It ain't me, but I think you know who I'm
talking about. I also don't need your body until you're already dead. I may be
Death, but I can't actually kill people. There's a timetable, you see. I can't
change that. Once your name comes up, I show up. Sure there are people who have
tried to cheat me, but I always win."

"I
don't understand. You're like two different people. Sometimes you're really a
great guy, like now. And other times, you're just plain evil and mean,"
Stanley questioned the apparition in the corner. He was still frightened of the
man, if he really was a man, but the relative ease of Ankou's present
personality gave him a little more bravery.

"Yeah.
Sometime when I don't take my meds regularly, I get crankier than normal and
just get a little nuts."

"Because
I'm Death. I deal with dead people day in and day out. All the time. You try to
walk in my shoes for a day and I guarantee you'll max out your
insurance-approved psych visits. It's not easy being me. I'm bad ass. But I
also have feelings. You want to know something? There's someone else who needs
meds. I mean, have you actually ever read the Old and New Testaments? Yahweh is
on one hell of a bender in the Old Testament."

"Oh,
my God." Stanley muttered.

"Yeah.
Mine, too. Listen, Stanley. I like you. You're a good kid. I really don't want
to see you die, but you're on my list," Ankou pulled a tattered notebook
from the inside pocket of his jacket. He opened it to a random page. "See
right here, Stanley Horowitz Goodwin."

"Stanislaus
Henri Goodwin. I have no idea who Stanley Horowitz Goodwin is."

"Well,
fuck me. That's never happened before."

“Okay,
Stanley,” Ankou said after a long pause, “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re
going to go find the right Stan Goodwin, make him governor and … Shit, no.
Wait. That won’t work. We’re going to … I have no idea what we’re going to do.”

“So? You’re kind of an idiot,” Stan said. “You pulled the wrong strings and got
the wrong guy elected as governor and now WE have to fix it, is that it?”

“Well, aside from the idiot part, yeah, that’s pretty much accurate,” Ankou
said back sheepishly.

“And
yet, here’s me thinking that I don’t have to listen to a word you say,” Stan
said. “Your contract is null and void. You didn’t even have my name right.”

“Oh, Stanley,” Ankou chimed in, the sheepishness replaced by force, “No. Our
contract is good. The dates might just be a little off. But I made you. And I
can still break you. And you still belong to me.”

“Except, if I’m not going to die by the time you shrivel up, what good does
that do you?” Stan asked, having thought about their earlier conversation. “Seems
to me that you better go find some other body to inhabit. It also seems to me
that I know your big dark secret and in fact, I own YOU.”

“Um.”

“So here’s what YOU’RE going to do. You go off and kill some people - or
whatever it is that you do. I’m going to wake my wife up for round two. And you
leave me the hell alone.”

Stanley looked over at his wife and back to Ankou. In that brief moment, Ankou
was gone.

Cue Barry White.

The next morning, Stanislaus Henri Goodwin woke up feeling like a million
bucks. He wanted to tell his wife everything that had transpired in the course
of the last 12 months but thought he’d better wait. Or just not. She might
think he was crazy. Hell, he thought he was crazy. Maybe he was crazy. But he’s
free. And he’s the governor-elect of California.

A
knock on the door rips him from his pleasant thoughts.

“Stanley Goodwin?,” the man at the door asks.

“I’m Stan Goodwin, yes. How can I help you?”

“Mr. Goodwin, I’m Karl Forte. I believe you know my boss Mr. Ankou.”

“Let
me stop you right there,” Stan interjected. “Ankou and I no longer have a
business relationship. He forgot to dot his i’s and cross his t’s and our
contract ended last night.”

“Oh,
I know. Believe me, I know,” Forte said. “See it’s not so much that Mr. Ankou
didn’t dot his i’s and cross his t’s it’s that I may have misled him. By which
I mean, I misled him.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.
I’m sick of his games and I’m sick of his plans to take over the world. And I’m
sick of that stupid motorcycle. And I’m tired. And I just want to die.”

“Well,
that took a morbid turn,” the governor-elect said.

“So,”
Forte continued, I was hoping that since Mr. Ankou was so willing to screw up
your life, you might be willing to exact a little revenge.”

“I
don’t know,” Stan said.

“Here’s what I’m hoping we can do. I want to run out the clock. I want to make
sure my boss spends the next few years searching for - but not finding - a new
body to inhabit. And once his current form degenerates to the point at which
he’s weak enough, we can kill him.”

“Wait
a minute, here,” Stan said. “I don’t know about killing. That. That just
doesn’t seem like the type of thing I’d be capable of.”

“First of all, Mr. Goodwin, he was going to kill you. Secondly, in case you
missed the memo, you’re the governor elect of California. One of the most
powerful men in the country. You can do whatever you want. And third, if we
kill death …”

Stan
really did contemplate the possibility of killing Death, but then the logistics
of not having the rules of Death apply just did not sit well with him. Besides,
Stan had other ideas.

“No,
I am just not interested.”

“I
don’t understand. Why would you not want to exact revenge on the man who set
you up to die a painful death?”

“Because,”
Stan said as he walked back towards the couch in his room and lit a cigarette.
“You are not Death.”

At
that statement, the form in the doorway morphed into Ankou and he had a large
smile on his face.

“Well
Stanley, you certainly passed the loyalty test. But I am afraid that you are
wrong about who I am. I am, most assuredly, Death.”

“You
know, Loki.”

Ankou
stiffened at the sound of his real name being spoken by a mortal.

“I
believed all of your little stories, but a lot of things just did not make any
sense. Why would Death need a human form? That bothered me from the moment you
said it.”

“Well…I…”

“Shut
the fuck up until I am done! Do you understand Loki?”

Loki
looked reserved as he stood in the hotel room doorway. “Of course, Stanley. Can
I at least come in and sit down?”

“No,
just stand there.”

Loki
leaned against the door frame and tried to maintain his composure. Then Stan
continued.

“No,
none of what you said made sense. The only person who made any sense was the
old lady in the park. You see, Death IS omnipotent and Death does kill people.
It is his job. You know how I know that?”

Loki
shook his head with a puzzled look on his face.

“Because
Death told me so. I went back to that park yesterday afternoon and talked to
that old woman. She has a lot of friends in some very high places. Death
actually looked a lot like G. Gordon Liddy. Which I thought was odd. But Death
apologized for everything I had been through. He said he could not interfere
because, well, he just doesn’t interfere with lives. He only takes them. But
when the old lady convinced me of who you were, Death felt compelled to
apologize to me, in person.”

“Well
Stanley, you can’t believe…”

“Have
I said it in a language you understand? Shut the fuck up!”

“Yes,
of course.”

“When
Death was done apologizing and after he had left, I did NOT shake his hand by
the way, the old lady introduced me to her boy. He’s a cute kid and he just
loves to play.”

At
that moment, Loki sensed that there was something hulking behind him. He could
hear it breathing and he could feel the breath on the back of his neck. Loki
did not dare turn around, but he also knew that running was a really bad idea.

“Play
chase?”

Stan
smiled and Loki turned to address the old woman’s “boy.” He was a huge monster
with horns on his head and hands that could palm a beach ball. Loki found
himself looking straight into the boy’s face. The boy was smiling, with trails
of slobber coming from the corners of his mouth. Then the boy spoke again, with
a gravelly voice that Loki recognized right away.

“We
play chase. You have head start.”

Loki
turned back to Stan with a look of fear on his face.

“This
isn’t over Stanley! Not by a long shot!”

Stan
just closed the door with his foot and waved to Loki as the door was closing.
Once the door was closed, Stan heard the boy roar, Loki scream and the sounds
of the chase being underway.

Sunday, January 19, 2014

I
live in the old tenement on Mulberry. You know the place. It's the one that
never has to be decorated for Halloween. In the five generations that my family
has owned it, it probably hasn't had a fresh coat of paint brushed across the
rough and warped clapboards. The roof of the porch, growing its own field of
moss, sags under the weight of sadness and neglect. As long as I can remember,
grass has never grown in the front yard and a lone, stunted pine tree leans
terribly into the wind. Every year, some kids from across the city find it
hilarious to knock on the front door as some sort of rite of passage. Every
year, my mother answers the door just in time to see several pair of boots
racing down the steps and across the street to safety.

I would probably know those very kids if I were to actually
attend the local high school, but my mother thinks it to be in my best
interests to be taught at home. Especially after dealing with the heathens with
no manners who knocked on the door and then rudely ran away. So, my only social
interaction is with my parents, my younger brother and my senile great
grandfather who lives at the end of the hall.

My great grandfather, third owner of the tenement and the
grandson of the original family owner, was born and has lived in the old place
nearly everyday of his life. The exception was during the four years he was
island hopping in the Pacific with the Marines during the Second World War. He
is a spry, old man. Well, his body is spry, but his mind is almost permanently
stuck in 1942 under attack by the dirty Japs.

There were two rooms at the end of the hall on the third floor
where great grandpa lived. Neither were likely to be entered by anyone in the
family. One was by choice. No one was sure what would happen if you entered
great grandpa's room. He could be attacking a fortified position or engaged in
a knife fight with the enemy. No one wanted to take the chance of being
mistaken for the enemy. If you absolutely had to go in, you hoped that he had
tired himself out and was tucked into a dirty blanket on the floor next to the
pristine, immaculately made bed.

The other room was the great mystery. Practically from birth, we
were warned to never enter that room. Partly due to the fact that it was next
to great grandpa's room, that rule was easily enforceable. However, I remember
one time with absolute clarity, the only time my adventurous older brother
decided that he was man enough to step across the forbidden threshold. My
little brother and I stood a safe distance away as Steve strode confidently
toward the door. He had barely reached for the knob when great grandpa stormed
out of his bedroom door screaming an incomprehensible stream of words directed
at Steve. He grabbed my brother and flung him into the wall across from the
door.

"Are you ready to die?" great grandpa asked, nose to
nose, after he had stopped screaming. My brother peed his pants and squirmed
away from the old man's grip. He hid in his room for the rest of the night. It
was shortly after his eighteenth birthday that Steve moved out. Actually, it
was more like he disappeared in the night. I haven't seen him since. I'm not
sure if my parents have or not, but I know my mother gets a letter a couple
times of year on what looks like expensive stationary or letterhead. She reads
them alone, never to anyone else, then holds them to her chest and sighs. I've
never figured out where she keeps them despite a great deal of snooping between
me and my younger brother, Seth.

So you see, my family is just as strange as the house I live in.
An absentee father who pops in to pay the bills before disappearing on a job
that takes him God knows where to do God knows what, an overbearing mother who
is afraid to let her children out of the house, an older brother who
disappeared half a decade ago, a younger brother who is content to be ruled by
his mother, and a crazy, old great grandpa who is still fighting the enemy
seventy years later.

But it's the door that has my attention now. My father, in a
surprise visit for my eighteenth birthday, has asked to speak with me in his
library. My father has a private sanctuary on the first floor that is a full
two stories high, reaching its ceiling to the floor underneath great grandpa's
room and whatever lies behind the other door. Book after book, moldy with
disuse, lined the shelves all the way to the ceiling. Whenever my father is
home, he has a fire crackling in the fireplace even in the height of summer.

When I stepped into the library, I was shocked to see great
grandpa sitting in my father's usual wing back chair, while father relaxed
against the credenza behind the chair. He directed me to sit in the lone chair
in front of the great desk. A fire burned hungrily in the fireplace, heating
the room almost to the point of being unbearable. Great grandpa leaned forward,
his rheumy eyes suddenly focused and full of mystery.

"Miles, you've reached the age of manhood. It's time you
learned about our family secret. All the men of this family for five
generations have followed the same rite the day after their eighteenth
birthday." Great grandpa's voice was full of vigor, belying the fact that
he was well into his nineties. It was also the longest I've seen him coherent
in a very long time. I nodded, not sure what exactly was happening.

"Listen carefully to what your great grandfather has to
say," my father muttered.

"Miles. tomorrow morning you will enter the room at the end
of the third floor hall next to my room. And we will close the door behind you.
You must not leave until the following morning. To do so will cause your brain
to revolt against reality and you torment you until all futures have ended. Do
not leave the room early. We cannot afford to lose another man in this
family."

"Once you are inside the room, you are to sit on the chair in
the center of the room. You will not stay there, but it is the beginning. Close
your eyes once you've sat down. The visions will come. Do not fight them. Let
them flow into you. And from you."

"I don't understand," I whispered. Despite the fire, I
was suddenly chilled. For so long, we'd been warned away from that door and
that room. Curiosity gripped me and part of me could not wait until the morning
to see what was behind the ancient wooden door. The other part of me was
terrified by what my great grandfather was telling me.

"Listen, boy. You will experience a series of visions that
will show you possible outcomes in your life. I must warn you, you cannot
control what you see. Some may be disturbing. However, your own death nor that
of anyone else can be shown in these visions, either. If someone dies, they
simply will not appear. Violence is extremely rare in these visions. They can
show you the love of your life, the birth of children and seemingly mundane
daily events. Despite this, no matter how insignificant the experience of each
vision, they can have a lasting impact on the direction of your life."

"These visions show only a possible outcome of your life.
They are not the only outcomes. Ultimately, the choice lies with you. Are you
ready for this?"

"I guess so."

"Good. Meet your father just before sunrise tomorrow
morning. He will let you into the room. Just remember not to leave before
sunrise the next morning."

* *
*

It was still dark the next morning when I met my father in the
hallway. The house seemed abnormally quiet. Even the constant creaking of the
old tenement settling seemed subdued. My father pat me on the shoulder and
unlocked the door. It seemed to catch on the threshold and moaned as it opened
to a darkened room. My father flicked a switch, flooding the room with light.
He gave me a slight push into the room, patted my shoulder again, and shut the
door behind me.

The room was musty. Yellowed and grey wallpaper with a dust
covered design was peeling back from the plaster in long strips. A decaying rug
covered the floor in the center of the room under the lone wooden chair. A
chamber pot sat in the corner. The windows were covered with sheer curtains
that we just starting to show a rising sun outside. I moved toward the chair
and sat down.

And waited.

After about 20 minutes of waiting in the
chair with no visions, I was certain that my father and great grandfather were
putting me on. I stood up and looked around the room. After 18 years of not
knowing what was in it, I thought it seemed absurd to simply sit in a chair and
not investigate a little.

Book shelves were covered with old dusty
books, very similar to those in my father’s study. Trinkets and doo-dads sat on
top of the book shelves. None of them were familiar. And it looked like none of
them were from this century. This was the room that time forgot, it seemed.

One book shelf had a box filled with
letters - my brother’s letters he had sent to mom! Another box had letters from
“Miles Smyth” addressed to “Rose.” Miles Smyth was my name, but I hadn’t
written these. Rose was my great grandmother’s name. So maybe these were from
my grandfather - my father’s father - to my grandma. My father never talked
much about his dad. In fact, he literally never uttered his name. Which makes
me suspect - but not certain - that these might be from him.

I pushed the box with my brother’s
letters to the center of the room and grabbed a handful of them, sitting in the
chair to read them. Maybe this is what I’m supposed to do, I thought. Maybe the
“visions” bit was just a joke and I’m really here to learn what has become of
my older brother and my grandfather. Maybe this is the real family secret.

I opened the first letter, dated August
17, 2008, just three days after my brother’s 18th birthday.

“Dear mom, The doctors tell me I will
never see you again. My episodes will only get worse as time goes on, they say.
But I’ve been told that I can write you regularly. They asked that you not
share these letters with anyone. Not even dad. It will simply cause too much
pain. The food here sucks. What I wouldn’t give for a decent pork chop and some
mashed potatoes. I have to go in for my treatment now, but I’ll write again
soon. I love you. Love, Steve.”

I was floored. My brother wasn’t off
backpacking through Europe or living in New
York or on an island surrounded by girls in hula
skirts. Or any of the other things that I’d imagined all these years. He was in
a hospital. And now I knew he was never coming home again.

Stricken by sudden grief, I sat in the
chair and reached for another letter.

That’s when the rite took hold.

I was no longer in the room on the third
floor. I was in a big city. Los
Angeles? San
Diego? I’m not sure. But I felt like I was in California. Standing
next to me was a beautiful woman. And next to her was someone who looked a lot
like me when I was seven years old. It was me. But I wasn’t controlling my own
actions. I called the woman Clara. And I called the boy Steve. We walked down a
boulevard lined with expensive shops. We were wearing nice clothes. And I felt
important. I even walked like I was important. We turned the corner and I was
back in the chair in the room on the third floor of the old tenement on Mulberry.

I freaked out a little and jumped out of
the chair. I was scared. Excited. Confused. I wasn’t really sure of what had
just happened. But I wanted more. So I sat back down.

Again with the waiting. Again with the
impatience. Again with the boxes of letters.

This time I took one of the ones from my
grandfather to my great grandmother. It was dated Feb. 29, 1952.

“Happy Leap Day, Mom. I hope all is well
at home. I wish I were there. The doctors let me go outside for a bit
yesterday. It was a treat on account of the fact that I hadn’t had an episode
in a whole week. They say if I go another week, I can go outside again. And if
I can go a month without an episode, I can come visit. That would be nice,
wouldn’t it? Tell dad I’m sorry. I should have stayed in the room like he told
me to. Love, Miles.”

So it was true. If you leave the room,
you go insane. That’s why my father never talks about his father. And why Steve
can’t come home. I decided then and there that no matter how bored I got or how
weird the visions were, I’d sit in that room until the sun rose the next day.

I sat back in the chair and once again,
the rite took hold of me.

I was flying a plane over Paris, shooting missiles
at other planes. A man sitting behind me who I called “Checker” was screaming
his head off about “fucking up those God Damn Torries.” The planes I was
shooting down had British flags on them. There were also planes from France, Italy, and some other places whose
flags I didn’t recognize. My plane had no instrument panel. Only a big LCD
screen. When I touched it, it seemed to just do what I wanted it to do. Our
plane was hit and we ejected. I landed back in the chair on the third floor of
the old tenement on Mulberry.

Adrenaline rushed through my veins. I
was sweating. Breathing heavy. My heart was pumping 4 million beats per minute.
But it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. I looked around the room for a clock,
hoping to determine how much longer I had to stay there. No luck. No clock.
Just the letters and the chair.

I picked a letter from Steve’s box.
September 4, 2008.

“Dear Mom, I really screwed up. I had a
bad episode last week and stabbed a nurse with a steak knife. They tell me
she’ll be okay but I have not been allowed out of my room since it happened.
I’m hoping maybe tomorrow. I love you. I miss you. I’m sorry. Love, Steve.”

My brother stabbed someone. He’s crazy.
And I will be too if I don’t stay in this room for another … I have no idea how
long. But I’m staying. I glanced out the window. The sun had barely moved over
the horizon. This was going to be a long day.

I sat back in the chair. I had barely touched my ass to the seat when the rite
took hold.

I
tried to gain some kind of control over this one but it was really no use. I
found myself in a tent in the jungle, somewhere. It had to have been some time
in the 1960s or 1970s. Wait a
minute. A jungle? The 1960s or 1970s? Holy shit! I was in Viet Nam! But
where was I? Why was I alone? Why were there no sounds going on outside the
tent? For that matter, how did I know I was in a jungle and it was the 1960s or
1970s? I hadn’t even looked outside the tent yet.

I
decided that I was not going to let this vision happen to me, but that I would
reach out and try to interact with it. The problem is that every time I
interacted with a vision, I wound up back in the chair and in the room. Screw it.
I was going to see what was out there.

I went
to pull down the zipper on the tent door when a knife suddenly cut through the
side of the tent and a screaming man grabbed my wrist. What the hell??! I
screamed and tried to see who it was, but the vision suddenly disappeared and I
was back in the room again.

This
time, however, I was not in the chair. I was standing in front of the painted
over window in the back of the room and I was facing the window. The hand that
I had tried to use to unzip the tent door was still outstretched as it had been
in my vision.

The
hand that cut through the tent was still holding my wrist! I panicked, but I
didn’t move. I could hear someone breathing in the dark corner of the room and
I knew it had to be the person who owned this hand. I
didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I should scream, or run, or throw a
wild punch into the darkness. Suddenly I start hearing the breathing being
intertwined with what sounded like someone speaking Chinese or some other Asian
word over and over again. I could have sworn that the voice was saying the word
“get,” but I couldn’t be sure.

It was
freezing in the room, but the sweat was running down the back of my neck and
all over my body. I started trembling, but it wasn’t from the cold. I could
hear the sound of the figure rustling for something in what sounded like a
pouch. It sounded like he was sifting through a bag full of metal as I could hear
small metal objects clanking against each other.

The
breathing was getting heavier and the voice was getting raspy and goddamned
spooky. Suddenly, the voice switched from an Asian word to English words being
spoken with a thick Asian accent.

“Joe?”
said the voice, with a long, drawn out “O” sound at the end.

Suddenly,
I could see the unmistakable silhouette of a knife blade slowly making its way
towards my wrist. That was the first time I started to struggle, and the hand
closed its grasp on my wrist to hold me in place.

“Joe?
You still wanna knife gook, Joe?”

With
that, I screamed and turned to confront the voice but nothing was there. The
hand was gone, the knife was gone, the breathing was gone and the voice was
gone. I was drenched in sweat and close to shitting my pants. I decided to sit
in the chair for comfort this time, even though it did not have a history of
offering comfort.

As
soon as I sat down and let out a sigh, the chair started to vibrate slightly. I
thought I was supposed to just have visions. Why was all of this stuff
happening? The vibrations started to get more pronounced and I realized that
they were actually footsteps in the room. I could hear Steve’s voice calling my
name, but that didn’t make any sense.

The room itself seemed to spin. Footsteps and voices
that couldn't be there echoed in my head. I whipped around in my
chair expecting to see Steve striding towards me. The room was empty,
mocking me in its sudden silence. I glanced down to my previously empty hands.
One of the letters was crumpled in my hand. I unclenched my fist and
released the pressure on the paper. As it smoothed out a bit I could see that
there were actually two letters stuck together.

The first letter was from my father to his mother about an
experience he had while in Viet
Nam. The second was yet another letter from
Steve.

“Dear Mom, They say this new medication will make me better, but
I can still see those things that aren't really there. You
know, just at the edge of my vision. Whenever I turn my head to look, it’s
gone, but I know it was there. They've followed me from the house.
Maybe Miles can be saved from this torment now that they’re here
instead. I've pulled them out of that dank, old room and made
them mine. Love Steve.”

I dropped the letters. They drifted gently to the floor in slow
motion. I watched them carefully as a dizzying sickness took over. I grasped
the edge of the chair to keep from falling to the floor. It seemed so far away.

The sky was a brilliant blue and the trees in the park were lush
with leaves. It was a beautiful day. It was a place I had never been
before, or even seen. Still, I felt comfortable like I had been here many, many
times. I walked alone along a pathway toward a pond and creek. Other
people were enjoying the day. I watched a homeless woman bring her cart from
under the bridge by the pond. She wasn't filthy like some of the
homeless I've seen around here. She seemed almost grandmotherly and caring
to those around her. I smiled at her and she smiled back.

Suddenly a man ran past me screaming. The other people on the
path parted before him as he rushed through the park. The next thing I knew, I
was on the ground. It felt like someone had pushed me, but I was alone on that
part of the path. I must have tripped over my own two feet while enthralled
with the visage of the screaming man. I pulled myself up to me knees. That’s
when I saw her, the most beautiful, most elegant…

I was back in the chair in the room. My world continued to spin
for a few moments and I stayed still to catch my breath. Everything was
happening so fast. I couldn't keep track of what was going on. Who
was that woman? My heart lurched into my throat when I first saw her. Was
she to be someone special in my life?

I had never really thought much about dating. Well, I have, but
when you’re home schooled and nearly forbidden from ever leaving the house, the
social skills required to date are severely retarded. It’s not like I have seen
very many girls waltz through the front door of my house.
Instead, I've found myself staring out the window at the end of the
school day to watch the kids walk home. I guess you could say I’m a
stalker. So to meet a woman as beautiful as the one I saw in my vision, I must
have spread my wings a little. Probably much to my mother’s chagrin.

With my heart rate finally settling down, I stood from the chair
and paced the room. The marble mantelpiece above the fireplace was coated
with dust. I traced my initials into it. They could very well still be
there in a few years when my younger brother visited the room for his own rite
of passage. The fireplace was cold and dark, not having a fire in it for a very
long time. There were stale ashes and bits of wood in the crib from a distant
fire. A chilly breeze blew down the open flue. I reached for the knob to close
it when…

The bricks were warm to the touch, almost hot. The fire had been
burning for awhile. Aside from the glow from the flames, a single lantern on
the mantle cast long shadows through the darkened room. The chair in the
center of the room was gone, replaced by a sectional couch occupied by the same
woman I had seen in the park vision. A flash of lightning and an immediate clap
of thunder resounded outside the windows. The power flickered on once, twice,
then remained as dark as when I first awoke in this vision. She was wrapped in
a blanket with her legs pulled up underneath her and maybe a few years older
than when I had seen her previously. Her hands rested on the lump of a pregnant
belly. She smiled as I focused on her beautiful face. She let the blanket drop
to invite me in and…

I steadied myself against the cold mantle. The fire was gone and
the room returned to loneliness and dreariness. These visions were sapping my
energy and my thoughts. I barely got used to what I was seeing before I was
pulled away. There had to be a way to stay in the vision state for a longer
period. I had to figure out a way. The constant tearing from reality to fantasy
was scrambling my brain and settling my heart on fire, ready to explode from my
chest. I was going to die before the day was over if I couldn't find away to
control what was happening to me.

I tapped my forehead roughly and said
aloud “Think. Think. Think.” It occurred to me that I was impersonating Winnie
the damn Pooh. This made me laugh for a second. I still had my wits about me.
For now.

I thought to myself: Do I let the
visions flow, as dad told me to do? Or do I try to interact? I’ve tried both strategies
and neither seems to have worked. Should I read more letters? Or just wait? I
feel like this room should come with a manual. Or dad and great grandpa could
have better prepared me.

I was suddenly awash in anger. Yeah, dad
and great grandpa should have definitely prepared me better instead of just
throwing me to the wolves.

I was in another forest. But this one
felt different. I wasn’t in ‘Nam.
I was in … Wyoming?
Again, I had no idea what made me think - or rather realize - that I was in Wyoming. These trees
looked just like any other trees. But something inside me told me I was
definitely in Wyoming.
Alone. In the woods.

What could this possibly show me about
my future? Just then I saw it. Staring at me. Drooling. A wolf. A North
American Gray Wolf. Staring me down. And then he stopped. In fact, everything
stopped. The wind stopped. The trees stopped moving. The noises in the forest
stopped. I think, in fact, time stopped.

I walked over to the wolf and touched
it. It was real. The trees were real. I was really here. I thought. Or not.
Maybe I was just slipping into insanity.

I decided that if time restarted, I
wanted not to be in front of a hungry wolf so I walked through the forest
touching everything I could. To assure myself that I was not, in fact, insane.

But why would I appear in Wyoming in front of a
wolf right when I was thinking about dad and great grandpa throwing me to the
wolves? I mean, that’s too coincidental to be a coincidence. And I wondered if
time was stopped here, was it stopped everywhere? Was the sun moving across the
sky back at home? Or was I stuck in one position living between the ticks of a
clock?

And just like that, I was back home.
Back in the room on the third floor.

So can I control it? I thought wolves, I
got wolves. I thought home. I came home. It was time to try another letter.
This one from my brother’s box. April 11, 2009.

“Mom, I know it’s been a while since
I’ve written. I’m sorry about that. I’ve really been deep in my own head. As
big a change as it’s been living in this asylum for the past eight months, I
have a strange feeling that the biggest changes in my life are yet to come.

“I fear that these changes are not good
at all. I want to escape. But I’m not sure if that’s a literal thing or figurative.
Whatever I may do, please know that I love you.

“Love, Steve.

“PS - Miles. Run. It’s a trap. Get out
now.”

Um. What? I did a double take a read it
again. “PS - Miles. Run. It’s a trap. Get out now.”

What the hell did that mean? My eyes
widened like saucers. My heart raced. And sweat immediately began to pour from
my forehead.

Was this a joke? A premonition? Was this
a vision? A trick? I can’t run. I can’t leave. I’ll go crazy like he did.
Right? And yet here’s this letter talking about escaping. And closing with a
note to me that I need to get out now because it’s a trap.

I went to sit in the chair to steady my
thoughts and stopped myself. If I sit in that chair, I’ll end up somewhere
else. Somewhen else. And Steve just warned me. I went to look out the window to
try to discern what time it was. I wished there was a clock in here.

As I looked out the window, I’m watching a basketball
game. The New York Knicks are playing the LA Lakers. I’m at MadisonSquareGarden. Sitting next to me
is the woman from the park, and next to her is a young boy. Next to him is my brother Steve.

“Thank you so much little brother for
getting me out for the day,” he said to me. “I don’t remember the last time a
hot dog tasted so good.”

“Yeah, of course,” I replied. “That’s what family’s
for.”

“So Stevie,” my brother turned his
attention to the young boy, “What’s your old man told you about your crazy
uncle?”

My son - I’m guessing it was my son -
looked at me with fear in his eyes, obviously not knowing how to answer my
brother.

“Obviously,” my brother said back. “You wouldn’t name
your son after a crazy man, would you Miles? Would you, Rose?”

Rose?

And just like that, I’m back in the tenement.

“Ok, screw
this” was the first thought that fired into my head. I had enough of this back
and forth. My brain hurt. My brain actually hurt. What
was the point of showing me all of this? Why did Steve warn me to run? Then it
occurred to me that maybe things are not what they appeared to be. I started to
wonder if Steve was part of something much bigger. I started to wonder what my
father and grandfather were really up to.

It
felt good to have coherent thoughts again, but the problem was I was having
these coherent thoughts while sitting in the chair. Suddenly I felt a cold
blast go up my spine and the rite took hold yet again. At
least, I think it did. I was still in the chair and, as far as I could tell, I
was still in the room. No parks, no basketball games, no forests in Wyoming, and no crazy Viet Nam guy trying to stab me. But
why was I here.

“You’re
here because the night is over and you can leave.”

Wow,
that voice sounded really familiar. I could see someone coming from out of the
corner of the room, but he was in a wheelchair and looking old. Even as old as
the person appeared to be, I knew right away it was me. I reacted with the
first thing that popped into my head.

“Well,
great. Now I am literally talking to myself.”

“Very
funny. It is time to get us out of here. Time to leave.”

As my
older self was talking to me, the face shifted back and forth between my face
and my grandfather’s face. It was almost like getting bad reception on a
television and then having the picture snap back into place, but I never knew
which face I would see.

“Time
to leave, eh? So who are you supposed to be?”

“I’m
you. You aren’t that far gone to recognize yourself, are you?”

As my
older self was saying the phrase “recognize yourself,” his face quickly snapped
to my grandfather’s face and then back again.

“No,
really. Who are you?”

The
figure in the wheelchair sighed, stood up, took off his glasses, and his face
suddenly completely changed to Steve’s face. All at once, the whole figure
changed into present day Steve. He reached out to shake my hand, but I just
didn’t trust it.

“Now
you don’t trust your own brother?”

“What the hell is going on?”

“It really is time to go Miles. The night is over and you can
leave the room now. You made it buddy! You did something I could never do!”

No,
no, no. That did not make any sense. My grandfather said that he and my father
would come get me. That is when I started to freak out.

“No!
You’re wrong! I have to stay in here or else I will go crazy! Like you did! I
can’t leave yet!”

“Miles, listen to me . . .”

But
the voice trailed off and now I was very afraid that I had officially lost my
mind. Was it really time to go? My father and grandfather didn’t say what would
happen if I stayed in too long. They just told me not to leave early. Maybe
they lied. Maybe that was the test.

My
mind raced. I didn’t know what to do. Suddenly there was a knock at the door
and a female voice saying my name. I didn’t recognize the voice. Was it real?
Was it another vision? I
started to sweat again. I decided that I had enough. I decided I would come out
now, whether it was time or not. I knew what the consequences would be. I
didn’t care. I couldn’t keep doing this. I
grabbed the doorknob, but it wouldn’t turn. I started pounding on the door, but
nothing happened. I kept trying and trying to turn the doorknob, but it
just wouldn’t go. I pressed my body up against the door and pushed as I turned
the knob one last time. The knob turned, and I burst out into the hallway and
fell to the floor.

I
looked up and instantly recognized the woman and boy standing over me with
looks of concern on their faces.

“Rose?
Stevie?”

“Honey,
what were you doing in there? Ever since your father died all you do is spend
hours and hours in that dark room.”

"What?
How? When?" I stuttered. I thought I had it all figured out, but now I was
just as confused as before. I glanced down at my hands. There were no letters
but it was not my hands I was looking at. They were older, lined with years of
work, and lassoed by a gold ring which was biting into the skin around it. It
was as though years had passed since it had first been placed there. I was
eighteen years old. I wasn't married and I wasn't old.

My wife, that
woman, whoever she was, helped me to my feet, whereupon I immediately sank back
to the floor. The reality, or maybe in this case, the fantasy of what was going
on around me was unbearable. I could smell the sweat dried on my body, and the
underlying stench of decay from a forgotten and ignored room in a forgotten and
ignored tenement.

"How long
have I been in there?" I asked.

"Since
your mother went back to Florida
after the funeral three days ago. Is everything okay?" Rose asked kneeling
in front of me. The boy scurried behind his mother's skirts, reminding me of my
younger brother.

"Just
sitting in there?"

"Yeah. Reading letters. You keep
that big box of them in the closet in that room," she motioned toward the
open door behind him. "I used to like that room, but when your
great-grandfather died, you went off the deep end and made up some hauntingly
bizarre stories about it. And then you closed it off to the rest of us. Some of
your stories are great, but those about that room scare me. I'm very proud that
you've made a wonderful living for us with your stories, but I wish you'd just
stop those ones about this place. This is our home."

So I was a
writer? When did that happen? Writing was one of the things my mother used to
punish me with whenever I disobeyed or failed to complete one of my
assignments. By far, writing was my last favorite of activities. This was
definitely a vision and I was still sitting in the chair in the middle of the
room. I stared past my "wife" to the wall beyond her.

Strangely, the
hallway seemed brighter than I ever remembered. The drab, off-ugly wallpaper
was gone, replaced with that chic, faux painting. Obviously, Rose had taken a
keen interest in redecorating the tenement after we were married and moved into
the old place. A ceiling light appeared at this end of the hallway outside the
doorway of great-grandpa's room and the forbidden room where none had ever been
before. This new brightness gave this part of the house a much warmer, lived in
feeling than before. I sort of liked it.

Still, this was
all a vision. What was it trying to tell me? Was this my future? I made it out
of the room, retained my fragile sanity, met this beautiful woman, and fell in
love? If this was where my life was heading, I was in for the long haul. I just
didn't want to miss all those experiences in between. I scooted on my but back
into the room.

"Call my
brother. I need to talk to him."

"You know
as well as I do that Seth is somewhere in Africa
on a mission. There are very limited options to get a message to him, and it
could take days for him to get back to us. He hasn't responded to the message
about your father yet. What makes you think this time will be different?"

"No. My
older brother, Steve."

"Steve?
What are you talking about? You're Steve."

I cocked my
head in confusion. Steve? My name was Miles. That was the most basic set of
facts about myself. I was Miles Patton. I had an older brother, Steve, who had
been through all of this. Insane or not, he would have some answers about what
was happening. By this point, the vision should have changed. I retreated
further into the room. Rose looked at me with something between pity and
genuine fear. It hurt me to see that in her eyes. I backed into something solid
that tumbled backwards. I looked behind me.

A stack of
hardcover books was in disarray on the floor. I saw my face staring back at me
from the back covers. I grabbed one and turned it over in my hands.

The
Continued Tales From Beyond the Door. A stylized picture of the
room I was in appeared below the title. At the bottom was my name: Steven Miles
Patton, III.

Trinity See

About Us

Trinity See is a trio of writers from Lockport, NY, comprised of Craig Bacon, George Root and Scott Leffler. We dabble in fiction and non-fiction writing as well as theatrical production and performance.

This page will offer a landing zone for many of our works and links to other things of interest.